


The Forever Farewell

by gpqr2e



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gpqr2e/pseuds/gpqr2e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Landsmeet convenes to decide Fereldan's fate. But what will the outcome mean for Alistair and Neria?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Forever Farewell

The Forever Farewell

“South Reach supports the Warden,” proclaimed Arl Bryland.

“The Southern Bannorn stands with Loghain,” responded Bann Ceorlic, “We have no hope otherwise.”

The arguments had concluded, now the Landsmeet nobles voted to decide Fereldan’s future. Neria stood beside Arl Eamon, the arl firm and upright, shoulders held straight, in spite of his advancing years, as the voting continued.

She risked a glance to her left, toward Alistair. The tall, broad-shouldered, goofy, hopelessly romantic human that she had inexplicably found herself falling for since they had met on the battlefields of Ostagar so many months ago. Alistair was worried. She could tell. Arl Eamon had presented him to the Landsmeet as Maric’s son and the rightful heir to the Theirin throne. A fate he had fought so hard to escape.

The meeting hall doors were suddenly thrown open, and in strode Anora. Loghain’s daughter, the widowed queen of King Cailan, had reached out to her to escape from Arl Howe’s dungeons, but as she strode in, Neria’s spirits fell. The human woman shot her a glare of pure hatred, and she saw Anora for who she truly was.

“Lords and Ladies of Fereldan, hear me,” she began, “This Warden has slandered and defamed the good name of Fereldan’s greatest hero, my father, to put a pretender on Maric’s throne.”

“Oh, perfect,” Neria heard Alistair mutter under his breath.

“It has become clear to me, Warden, that you are a threat to all of Fereldan,” the queen continued, “I will not allow you to destroy this throne and this kingdom by a king so unsuited to rule,”

Loghain seized the opportunity, “Who here can say that Anora is not fit to rule, to hold the Theirin throne? She has ruled with Cailan for five years. She is beloved and popular. She can leader our nation, and I, her armies.

And what of this Alistair?” the Teryn continued, “What do we know of him, other than he may have royal blood? What qualities does he have to rule?”

“The Waking Seas stand with Loghain,” called the arl. The voting had resumed.

Bann Sighard stood in turn. Neria and Leliana had freed his son from Howe’s dungeons, “Dragon’s Peak stands with the Warden,”

Gell Lendan, Arl of Edgehall, arose, “Edgehall supports Teryn Loghain,”  
“The Blight must be stopped. Fereldan needs the Grey Wardens,” Arl Wulff of the Western Hills, “We stand with Alistair.”

All eyes turned to the Bann of Telmar, the deciding vote at the assembly. He sighed, then stood, “Regrettably, it seems the esteemed Teryn has taken his hatred of Orlais too far. Telmar stands with the Warden.”

Loghain’s expression twisted into a snarl, “All of you, so ready to hand Fereldan to Orlais. What price did you get? What price is Fereldan honour and freedom to the Empress?”

He strode toward Eamon, fire blazing in his eyes, “And you Eamon, you fought with us. You were one of us, before you got old and soft and fat. Look at you know!”

Loghain turned and faced the assembly once more, “How dare you judge me. You have now idea of the sacrifices I have made, will continue to make, for the land. How dare you.”

Neria stepped forward, “Enough. Call off your guards and let us settle this honourably.”

Eamon’s hands tightened on the railing in front of him as she spoke. She didn’t even dare look toward Alistair. “Very well Warden,” replied Loghain, “I suppose we both knew it would come to this. Maric used to say that a man is measured by the quality of his enemies. I wonder whether that’s more a compliment to you or me?”

On the floor of the meeting hall, the two combatants stood ten paces apart. Loghain was clad in heavy plate armour that covered his entire body, and was wielding a great longsword and a large metal shield. He was a formidable sight.

Neria drew her own sword, the inlaid runes giving her spellcasting improved vitality and causing the blade to glow and shimmer with a pale shade of blue. Her own shield was small and metal-rimmed, buckled to her left forearm leaving her hand free for casting. She wore light but strong armour, a dragonskin hauberk and high boots crafted by Master Smith Wade. The armour permitted her great freedom of movement.

As the duel started, Loghain approached her at a run, knowing his was disadvantaged unless he could engage at close quarters. Neria readied herself as he approached, casting a magical shield on herself to lessen the force of his attack.

His blade was held high, poised for a downward slash against her sword arm. She slid underneath the stroke, twisting her body just enough to avoid impact as it cut through the air.

She used the momentum of the evasion to transition to a sideways half-roll that carried her away from the human warrior. As she regained her feet, she reached out with her powers, invisible tendrils of magical energy reaching out toward Loghain.

He saw the hand movement, if not the effect, and reacted by diving to the side, dodging the full brunt of the attack. Neria followed the action by generating an icy blast that sped toward him.

Loghain brought his shield up in time, the blast freezing and cracking the metal. He discarded it, useless, and adjusted his stance, adding his shield hand to the extended grip of his sword, and then closed in once more.

As his stroke fell, Neria brought her shield up and intercepted the blow. Loghain off-balance momentarily, she drove the thin point of her sword into the weak point of his armour at the shoulder plate.

Blood began to pour from the wound. Loghain grunted and staggered, left arm hanging limply, but he managed to press on, raising his sword once again. She watched his movements carefully as he closed in, calculating where the next stroke would come from.

She missed the mailed fist which cannoned into her temple. Somehow, ignoring the pain and damage to his shoulder, Loghain had raised his left arm. Stars and lights exploded in front of her eyes as she collapsed to her knees from the force of the blow. Blindly, she lashed out with a shockwave of psychic energy, blasting her assailant backwards away from her.

She shook her head, quietly whispering a healing spell to reduce the pain and damage of the blow. As she recovered, she saw the Loghain, too was slow to regain his feet. Once more she danced past the arc of his strike, and lashed out with another psychic shockwave, stunning Loghain. She held her sword over his inert form and looked toward Eamon and Alistair. Anora rushed to her father’s side. He coughed, weakly. 

“No, no, no!” pleaded Anora, “My father, he…he can…”

“Hush, Anora, it’s over,” whispered Loghain, “I underestimated you, Warden. I thought you were just another child playing at war. But there’s a strength in you. Finish it. I can die in peace knowing Fereldan is in your hands.” Her final stroke found its mark.

“It is decided, then,” said Eamon, striding to her side, “Alistair will be our king.”

Alistair raised his hands defensively, “Wait, no, no-one’s decided that, have they?” He looked at her pleadingly, begging her silently to do something, anything, to prevent this.

She thought back to the long conversations they had shared in their time together, talking deep into the night as the campfire burned low. Alistair slowly realising that he might be called upon to take the mantle of king, but desperately wanting to avoid the fate his blood had decreed.

But as she looked around at the gathered assembly, she saw no other options. When Anora had reached out to her and Eamon, she had desperately hoped that the offer as genuine and Cailan’s widow was prepared to stand against her father.

Now, watching her kneel over her father’s hope, she knew it had always been a false hope, yet another plot in Anora’s web to maintain her grip on power in the kingdom.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed to Alistair, before steeling herself for the fateful words. “Alistair shall be king,”

Applause broke out amongst the nobles at those words. “Anora,” said Eamon, “The Landsmeet has decided against you. You must now swear fealty to your king and relinquish all claim to the throne.”

“If you think I will swear that oath you know nothing of my,” she hissed defiantly.

Eamon turned to Alistair, “Sire, if she will not take the oath, she must be dealt with. We cannot leave the kingdom in a state of civil war.”

“Right. Yes,” replied Alistair nervously, “Guards, take her to the tower. We can deal with her more permanently once the Blight is defeated.”

 

Neria stood on the balcony of her small room, enjoying the night sea breeze that gently blew across Arl Eamon’s Denerim estate, before she turned in for the night. It had been three days since the Landsmeet, during which she had barely seen Alistair as he grew into his new role. With the Fereldan nobility united, the had begun to form plans of attack to end the Blight.

There was a knock at her door. “It’s open,” she called.

It was Alistair. Gone was the torn and stained chantry robe and the practical, durable Templar armour. Gone too was the dirt and grime from months of sleeping rough. He was clad in a magnificent suit of ceremonial armour, a gold sheen that shone in the torchlight. At his side was an elaborate sword.

He looked…regal. Kingly. But the expression he wore was deathly serious, grim and determined. “We need to talk.”

He sat down on the room’s sole chair. Neria remained standing. “We need to end this,” he said, simply.

“What?”

Alistair sighed heavily, “You know, our relationship. With me being king, it just isn’t going to work out the way we hoped.”

Neria felt like she had been struck. This blow hurt worse than when Loghain’s armoured fist had connected with her temple. “Why?” she managed to ask, “Is this because I made you king?”  
His shoulders slumped, “No. I understand that it had to be done, and I accept your reasons for choosing me. But now…I have duties, responsibilities. I need to unite the kingdom, marry a queen, father a successor.”

“It’s because I’m an elf?”

“Yes…No!” he sighed again, “I love you. I always have and I always will. I dreamed that when this was all over, once the archdemon was dead, that we could find a quiet corner of Fereldan together and live our lives in peace and obscurity. But I’m king now. I can’t pretend that nothing has changed. I think it’s best we end this now, while we still can. I’m…I’m sorry.”

The hammer blow again. She fought desperately to hold back the tears she felt welling up inside her. “Just…just go.”

Alistair hesitated. “I…hoped we could still be friends. I still need you. Maker knows how I’ll go as king without you around.”

She looked up at him, watching as his face changed as he saw the pain and hurt in her eyes. Instinctively, he reached out to her, offering an embrace. In spite of herself, she fell into his arms, sobbing.

Taking her hand, he sat down beside her on the bed, strong arm around her thin shoulders. “I’m sorry. So sorry,” he whispered.

They sat there, together, in silence for hours. As they watched, the sun rose, slowly emerging like a shining crystal over the Amaranthine ocean.

 

Alistair looked down at the elf girl he had fallen for, head resting gently on his shoulder, the hopes of a nation on hers. When Duncan had died with the rest of the Grey Wardens at Ostagar, he had felt a yearning emptiness that he wondered if it would ever be filled.

He had never expected someone so incredible. And now this, too, was over. It had to be done, but he was filled with regret. Was all this really worth it, that he had to sacrifice so much for?

He shook his head, firming his resolve. He gently lay Neria down on the bed, kissed her forehead, and then strode determinedly from the room. He did not look back.

It was the last time they spoke.

 

   
Neria watched from the entrance to the fort as Riordan fought single-handedly against the archdemon. The senior Grey Warden leapt from the fort’s tower onto its back, plunging his sword into the beast’s hide and holding on grimly as the dragon corkscrewed in an attempt to throw him from its back.

Then the beast changed tactic, flying directly at the tower before turning sharply at the last moment. Riordan lost his grip on the embedded sword, and in a desperate attempt to save himself, drew his knife and thrust it in as he landed on the dragon’s wing. The thin blade made a hideous gash as it tore through the membrane, but did not hold.

Riordan fell to his death on the flagstones a hundred metres below. The dragon, badly injured, struggled to maintain altitude and landed heavily on top of the fort.

This was it. The final confrontation with the Archdemon where she would perform her sworn duty, make the sacrifice to destroy the beast and end the Blight. Behind her were the gathered armies that had made it into the city. Dwarf and mage, human and elf. Keeper Zathrian was there, and First Enchanter Irving. Arl Eamon led his household knights.

Room by room the Fereldan allied forces fought their way through the fort, leaving no dark spawn alive. Leliana, Wynne and her Mabari were with her, faithful companions to the end. Sten and Alistair fought elsewhere in the city.

At last the Fereldans reached the tower summit. The archdemon, unable to properly take flight, roared as the elven archers loosed their longbows, wave after wave of heavy elf-arrows puncturing its thick hide.

Flame gushed from its maw and several soldiers were incinerated. The line continued to advance against the buffeting of its wings and heat of its breath, grimly ignoring all casualties.

Thunk-Thunk-Thunk. Several of Eamon’s men had reached the fort’s ballistae. The powerful artillery bolts sunk deep into the archdemon’s flesh. As the dragon roared again in pain and fury, Neria saw her chance.

She surged forward, sword drawn. She timed the movement perfectly as another volley of ballista bolts struck the archdemon. As it lowered its head to blast the approaching forces, she quickened to a sprint and raised her blade high above her head. Her momentum slashed the archdemon’s throat.

Blood flooded from the gaping wound, covering her in thick blackness as she straddled the beast’s neck and plunged her sword again and again until all movement ceased.

A column of light blazed forth as the Old God’s soul left its broken body. Neria felt it was h over her, a sensation of an overpowering presence trying to be let in, and then…

Nothing.  
   
As the darkspawn began to flee, Alistair looked up at the pillar of light which leapt from the top of Fort Drakon. He raised his sword in sad salute for the fallen Warden. It was victory but at oh such a bitter cost. Inwardly, he wondered if it should be different. Should he have been the one to make the killing blow?

He began the long, slow, journey into the city.

 

She looked to peaceful in death, the care, worry and anguish all washed away, leaving only a serene beauty. A few mourners stood vigil at the private ceremony as Neria, the Hero of Fereldan was returned to the Maker.

Her remaining companions were there. Morrigan had vanished to parts unknown. Neria’s Mabari sat by her pyre, head bowed and whining piteously. Sten stood at attention, proud and aloof as always. He would soon return to his people but had stayed in Denerim for the ceremony.

Oghren was heard to sniff loudly several times, which he would deny to his dying day. Leliana was near tears herself, wordlessly mouthing the chants of the Reverend mother. Wynne was quiet, kindly face harbouring deep sadness. Arl Eamon and First Enchanter Irving stood to one side, heads bowed.

The Reverend Mother Finished the chant, and Alistair quietly stepped forward and lit the pyre. The flames quickly spread, wreathing her body in fire. As he watched, he clasped the amulet he wore around his neck, the one she had given him what seemed like an age ago now. “Goodbye, dear heart,” he whispered.


End file.
